


The Pretense of Being

by radialarch



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Identity Issues, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/radialarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain America believed that the soldier was Bucky Barnes. This did not make it a fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pretense of Being

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [为人](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2738900) by [cindyfxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cindyfxx/pseuds/cindyfxx)



Looking at pictures of James Buchanan Barnes was not like looking in a mirror. Barnes’s hair was military-short. The stubble on his jaw was not as thick. These were not significant differences, but they existed.

Captain America had called him “Bucky.” This could not be accurate. Captain America and Barnes had been best friends. The books were very particular on this point. Bucky Barnes would not have fought Captain America. (One gunshot wound through the stomach. Stab wound to the right shoulder. Possible fractured cheekbone.)

But Captain America had stopped fighting back. He had dropped his shield into the river. When the soldier planted a knee in the Captain’s torso, the Captain’s body went, willingly.

Captain America believed that the soldier was Bucky Barnes. This did not make it a fact.

The soldier knew something had gone wrong with his programming. He had pulled Captain America out of the river. He’d stood by him and made sure that the Captain’s chest was rising and falling. This was a direct violation of the mission. He should have reported back to his handlers. He should have been wiped — fixed.

He did not care. That was another way he knew something had gone wrong.

But he did not know how to fix himself. Fixing required knowing the shape of the whole. The soldier had never been whole. He had always had a metal arm. He’d always had handlers to give him orders. These things he knew, just as he knew how to sight a target and squeeze the trigger between beats of his heart. These things he knew without being taught, which made them more than fact. They were.

The soldier was not Bucky Barnes. The thought came to him suddenly, unbidden: could he become Bucky Barnes?

Barnes had been a good XO. He had covered Captain America in battle, and the Captain was still alive. If he had to be someone, Barnes was an acceptable choice.

The plan came to him easily. He would be Barnes. Barnes had not required handlers; by becoming Barnes, the soldier would not, either. He would not need to report back. He would not need to be wiped. (The fingers of his right hand clenched. He did not want to be wiped.)

Bucky Barnes had not had handlers, but he’d had a friend. That was who the soldier needed, now.

Captain America had said, “You know me.” The soldier did not, not in the way the Captain had meant. The knowledge he had of the Captain came from his handlers: 6’ 2”, 220 lb, enhanced strength, enhanced speed, enhanced reflexes—

Did he know the Captain?

The soldier shook his head. Barnes knew the Captain; the Captain knew Barnes. That was enough.

———

He cut his hair with a pair of stolen scissors. It was messy; the cut ends stuck out slightly over his ear, and spiked up when he rubbed the top of his head. Barnes had been a neat man. The haircut was nothing like what he would have had. But it made him less of the soldier.

It was pointless to worry about the details at this stage. He could not become Bucky Barnes on his own. That was not the goal. He did not know enough about him, and books could only give him so much.

What he could do was to start the process. He would shape himself into something like Barnes. Refining that shape would come later, as he learned.

He wondered, for the first time, if the Captain would agree to help. He had assumed so. The Captain had said “Bucky?” with a voice full of hope. The Captain thought Bucky Barnes could be saved.

He shook away the feeling of unease. The Captain wanted to save Barnes. The Captain would not turn him away.

———

He could not be Bucky. Bucky was a nickname, familiar, intimate. Bucky was a friend of Captain America’s — of Steve’s. Bucky was something to be earned.

But he could be Barnes. There was a cool, military formality to a last name. Barnes was the one who history remembered. Barnes could take orders and obey, the same as the soldier. That was good. It meant one less thing he had to relearn.

It took some time to learn all he could about Barnes. The last thing he did as the soldier was to dispose of his weapons. He kept one gun tucked into his belt and a knife in his boot. The rest he left in the Hydra safehouse. He stood up and took stock of himself. He consciously discarded each of the soldier’s mannerisms: adopted a wider stance and the merest of a slouch.

Then he went to Steve.

It did not take long for Steve to answer the door. His eyes went wide, and his mouth opened. “Bucky,” he said, and took a step forward.

Barnes shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not yet.” His voice was raspy. He didn’t know if that was wrong for Bucky.

Steve looked at him. He raised a hand to touch him on the shoulder and then stopped, the hand hovering in the air between them. He cleared his throat. “Do you,” he said. “Do you want to come in?”

———

Steve’s apartment was very clean. Steve steered him to the sofa and sat down next to him, his hands on his knees.

“I don’t understand,” Steve said.

“Tell me about Bucky,” Barnes said. “I need—” he looked down— “data.”

“You want me to make you Bucky.” Steve stood up. He ran a hand through his hair and looked left and right, as if searching for something. “I can’t do that.”

“You were the closest to him,” Barnes said. “You know more about him than anyone else.”

“No,” Steve said. “I can’t just—put my memories into your head, that’s not how this works.”

“Bucky Barnes is dead,” Barnes said. The words came out with a harsh rasp he hadn’t meant. “He died in 1943. This is the only way.”

“I don’t believe that.” Steve shook his head. “You came to me. That means something.”

“I thought you would help,” Barnes said. He stood up. Disappointment rose thickly in his throat. He turned toward the door.

His hand was on the doorknob when Steve said, “Stop.” Barnes turned around. Steve had dropped onto the sofa again. His head was cradled in his hands. “Don’t go,” Steve said, his voice wretched. “I’ll — I’ll do it.”

Barnes stopped. “Okay,” he said. He sat next to Steve again, and put his right arm around Steve’s shoulders. Steve didn’t shake him off. “Okay.”

———

Steve did not tell him about Bucky all at once. It was nothing like reading a book. He spoke about him in fragments, at odd times, with his eyes drifting out of focus.

After he came back from a run, with his shirt sticking to his chest and standing over a cup of coffee.

While he was putting away groceries, leaning against the refrigerator door with a can of beans in hand.

At night, when his mouth was soft with sleep; curled on the sofa with his feet tucked underneath him and his elbow just touching Barnes’s own.

Steve always ended his memories with, “You remember?”

The first time, Barnes had said, honestly, “No.” Steve had looked at him, eyes coming back into focus, and suddenly looked terribly sad.

Bucky made Steve happy. Talking about him made Steve’s mouth turn up at the corners, his voice warmer and lighter. He wasn’t supposed to make Steve sad; that was wrong.

He did not say “No” again.

———

Steve didn’t sleep well. There were nights when Barnes could hear him pacing in his bedroom. Three steps and a turn, three steps and a turn. It went on for a long time. He sat up on the sofa and wondered if he should do something.

Bucky would have gone to talk to Steve. So Barnes slid off the sofa and knocked on Steve’s door. His right hand. Softly.

He heard Steve stop mid-turn. The door cracked open. “Hey,” Steve said. The word came out a little raspy. His shoulders were slumped.

“Should get some rest,” Barnes said. The lopsided smile came to him easily. “Need your beauty sleep.”

Steve took a sharp breath. He opened the door further, and took a step forward. “Bucky,” he said, not like a question.

What would Bucky have said? “Always, pal.”

Steve put his hands on Barnes’s shoulders, both of them. Barnes tensed when Steve’s hand landed on metal, but Steve didn’t flinch. “Steve?” Barnes said.

Steve pulled him forward and kissed him, warm on his mouth.

The shock of it made him jerk back. He could hear his left arm whirring. His heart was beating very fast.

Steve let him go. “Sorry,” he said. He didn’t meet Barnes’s eyes, instead looking somewhere over his shoulder. His mouth was turned down.

Bucky did not like Steve to be unhappy. “Hey,” Barnes said, quiet. He raised his right hand to cup Steve’s face and turn it back toward him. “Don’t look like that.”

This time he was ready when Steve kissed him. He made the muscles of his body relax and leaned in toward Steve. He let his mouth open a little; when Steve slid his tongue across his lower lip, it made him shiver pleasantly.

Steve made a desperate noise against him. His hands were around Barnes’s waist and he didn’t let go as he fell back. Barnes stumbled forward, his mouth still on Steve’s, until the back of Steve’s legs hit his bed.

“Please,” Steve said against the curve of Barnes’s jaw.

“Okay,” Barnes said. He let himself get pulled down to the bed, on top of Steve. Steve was hard against his stomach, and he let out a throaty groan when Barnes pressed his right hand under the waistband of his boxers to stroke at his cock.

“Take these off,” Steve said, plucking at Barnes’s clothes. Barnes did, letting the shirt drop to the floor and stripping off his underwear quickly. He was half-hard against his thigh, and he brought himself to hardness as he watched Steve stretch across the bed. His t-shirt rode up, revealing a pale, flat stomach.

When Steve sat up, his fingers were slick and shining. He stripped and worked himself open, slowly. He was biting his lip, his teeth white against his red mouth, and when he slipped a second finger inside him his eyes slid closed.

“Steve,” Barnes said. His voice was very rough. He swallowed.

Steve didn’t say anything, just raised his hips and looked at him. He kept looking as Barnes took a step forward, to brush at the skin of Steve’s thigh; as he took his cock in hand to line himself up with Steve’s body.

When he thrust forward, Steve made a breathless noise and tugged him even closer, wrapping his legs around Barnes’s waist.

“Yes,” Steve said, as Barnes moved; as he thrust into the heat of Steve’s body. He was touching himself, unselfconscious, almost leisurely. Barnes brought his hand down to wrap around Steve’s fingers, pulling at him as he moved his hips faster.

When Steve came, he did without a sound, spilling silently over their fingers. His head was thrown back, and Barnes looked at the line of his throat, the way it moved.

Afterwards, Steve cleaned them both up and wrapped his arms around Barnes’s torso. He said into the hollow of Barnes’s throat, “You’re not Bucky, are you?”

He was trying, but it wasn’t good enough. “No,” Barnes said, flat.

Steve’s hair was sticking to his forehead. "Yeah," he said. He leaned his head against Barnes’s shoulder, the one made of metal. “Didn’t think so.”

Barnes breathed. Steve moved with the rise and fall of his chest.

“There was that time,” Steve said, quietly. “We were gonna go to Coney Island, you remember?”

———

Do you remember?

———

He remembered:

Captain America’s arm across his throat. His right arm slipping out of its socket. Screaming.

A man in a suit. He said, “Mission report,” and words spilled out of his throat.

His rifle tucked against his shoulder. He looked through the scope and at the other end was a room, a child, a woman. He squeezed the trigger and bright red blood sprayed onto the wall.

He did not tell Steve about these memories. They were not useful. They did not help him become Bucky Barnes.

And Steve would not have liked them.

———

The Falcon — Sam came by one morning. Barnes remembered kicking him off a helicarrier. His mouth moved into a grimace.

“Hey, Sam,” Steve said easily.

“Hey,” Barnes said. He wasn’t sure if he should apologize. Steve did not like being reminded about the soldier.

Sam looked at Barnes. He looked at Steve. “Hey,” he said. His posture was tense. “Steve, can I talk to you?”

Steve touched Barnes on the shoulder. “We’ll be a minute,” he said, and went into the kitchen with Sam.

Barnes had excellent hearing. Sometimes Steve forgot that. He never reminded Steve about it.

“The hell you doing, man?” Sam was saying in a furious whisper. “I come by to see how you’re doing and you have the Winter Soldier in your house!”

“He’s not the Winter Soldier,” Steve said, pained. Barnes could imagine the look on his face: lips thinned, and a frown slashed between his eyebrows. “He’s — look, he told me he wanted to be Bucky.”

“And you just said okay? How do you know it’s not a trap?”

Steve sighed. “It’s not,” he said. “Just trust me, please.”

“Steve,” Sam said, his voice a touch less harsh. “I know what you’re going through, all right? But that—” there was a shuffle— “that is not Bucky. You cannot bring him back just like that.”

There was silence for a moment. Barnes slowly stood up. Bucky would have done something before this. Walked into the kitchen, maybe. Made a joke.

He heard Steve say, low but clear, “I know.” It was a defeated sound. There was an ugly disappointment to the words.

Barnes looked at his hands — flesh and metal. The right one was shaking, but the left was perfectly steady. He looked in the direction of Steve’s voice, but only saw the wall.

He left through the window.

———

He couldn’t be Bucky. Steve knew that, and had kept trying anyway. Steve was a good man. Not like him.

Whatever Hydra had done, they’d done it well. They’d carved out the good in Bucky Barnes, those qualities that made happiness shine on Steve’s face. All that was left was the soldier, and the soldier was only good for killing.

Becoming Barnes had been a fantasy. The only thing he could do now was to report back.

He was a failed weapon. The best they could do would be to put him back in cryo. In cryo, he didn’t have to think. In cryo, he was nothing.

Or maybe he was too broken even for that. Perhaps they would terminate him.

Whatever they did, it must be better than this. Failure.

———

He went back to the safehouse. Someone else was already there. He was pointing a gun at him.

“Drop your weapons, soldier,” Rumlow said. His arm was shaking. There were patches of shiny pink skin across his forearm.

He looked at Rumlow. Rumlow had been one of his handlers.

Rumlow had called him _soldier_.

“ _Drop your weapons_ ,” he said. This time the words were unfamiliar, but he knew what they meant without knowing. “активов.”

The soldier dropped his gun, and his knife. Rumlow would tell him what to do. Rumlow would give him the orders he needed.

“He made things personal,” Rumlow said. “He’s gonna regret that.”

The soldier said nothing. He was not required to react.

“I hear Captain America is still alive,” Rumlow said suddenly.

“Yes,” the soldier said.

“Good,” he said. He smiled. It was nothing like Steve’s smile. “‘Cause I wanna kill him myself.”

———

Rumlow’s order had been clear. Incapacitate the Captain. Do not kill.

He was in an apartment across the street from the Captain. He crouched by the window. He set up his rifle, and that was easy, mechanical.

He would aim for the Captain’s knees. That was within acceptable mission parameters. Rumlow would be waiting outside the Captain’s apartment.

Captain America was sitting on his sofa. He had a drink in his hand. The soldier pressed his eyes to the scope and lined up the shot.

The soldier—

Captain America raised the glass. He tipped his head back. The soldier saw the line of his throat move.

The soldier’s right hand was shaking. It didn’t matter. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger.

The Captain pressed a hand to his face.

The soldier—

Barnes—

The Captain was unhappy—

The soldier took a breath. He could see Rumlow on the other side of the door. Rumlow made an impatient gesture with his hand.

He looked into the scope—

The Captain’s name was Steve—

_Do you remember?_

A drop of sweat slid into his eye. He wiped it off and looked at—

Looked at—

He looked at Rumlow and fired—

———

There was glass on the floor of Steve’s apartment. He stepped over Rumlow’s body and went straight to Steve, who was standing in the middle of it all.

“Bucky,” Steve said in a strange voice. “You came back.”

He was shaking. His hands were trembling. His legs felt like they could not hold him up.

He let himself fall and grabbed at Steve’s legs. He pressed his face to Steve’s thighs so he didn’t have to look at Steve’s expression. Steve’s jeans were rough on his face. He curled his fingers tightly into Steve’s flesh and thought he could nearly feel the thrum of Steve’s pulse against his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Steve touched him on the shoulders. “Don’t,” he said thickly. “What’re you sorry for?”

“I can’t—I’m not Bucky,” he said, muffled. “I tried, I can’t.”

Steve pried his fingers from his legs, gently. He slid down to the floor and took his face in his hands.

“Shh,” he said. “Look at me. You saved me, Buck.” He pressed a kiss to his mouth, very softly. “You’re always saving me.”

Then Steve’s arms were around him, tight. Bucky tucked his face into the curve of Steve’s neck and breathed, just breathed.

**Author's Note:**

> Love to Sara, always. Russian via Google translate, so preemptive apologies /o\


End file.
